


The Shape of Her

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 08:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14375109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro





	The Shape of Her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tuliharja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/gifts).



He kisses her beneath the fluorescent lights, against the spotless marble counter in the middle of her kitchen. 

She tastes like tangerines and sweet tea. Like desire and mischief, a laughing tease. Beneath that, the distinct taste of _her,_ delicate and steel-sharp.

Within his arms, beneath his hands, she is a contradiction. Flame-hot and frost-cold. 

He runs his hand along her back and feels the zip of her dress, the strength of her spine beneath his fingertips. Her body that goes limp and weak-kneed beneath his touch. 

His hands find their way beneath her ass. He lifts her onto the counter, watches the way her dress hikes up, exposing what little was concealed in the first place.

She lifts her long leg, stretching it out before him with the grace and elegance of a ballerina. A coy smile adorns her face. The light in her eyes is an invitation, a dare, a _challenge._

And always, he accepts. His fingers trace the path from her thigh to her knee, from her shin to the single stiletto that hangs from the edges of her dainty toes. 

Hashirama contemplates removing the shoe. He doesn't. Tonight, he will have her half-dressed. Shoe on a foot. Dress halfway up her waist. Hair that's half undone. 

Mito grins like she knows what he's thinking. Hooks a leg around his waist, draws him close. She guides their hips together. She leans back, maintaining distance between their bodies. 

For a moment, they are still. Somewhere between _touch_ and _don't touch,_ _come closer_ and _stay away._ Their eyes are locked. They breathe in tandem. _I dare you to blink first._

It is Mito who gives. Her laugh breaks the spell. She narrows the space between them, reels him in with his tie. 

Hashirama follows.

  


* * *

  


She is the ghost that slips into his bedroom at night, unnoticed by all but him.

He likes the way her hair looks, rivers of red running down her shoulders, her back. He likes the way she feels, soft and feminine and wild. The way their clothes look in a careless, crumpled heap upon the floor.

She pushes him down onto the bed, and he lets her. Her hand that's splayed upon his chest is both soothing and dangerous. Hashirama feels his breath stutter in his lungs. Feels his heart quicken beneath the heat of her touch.

She makes a show of straddling him. Everything about her is a magnificent tease, a hint of what's to come. Her hair that tickles his skin as she leans forward. Her breath that ghosts light upon his lips. Her hand that slowly strokes his cock, guides him to her. Her cunt that's slick and hot against him, engulfing him, inch by agonizing inch.

She moves frustratingly, maddeningly slow. Down, down, down till he is fully sheathed inside her. 

Hashirama groans, satisfied and wanting. His hands are crushing grips upon her hips. He knows there would be bruises come dawn. The very thought of it is a turn-on.

Mito rolls her hips, and it is suddenly difficult to breathe. Her body moves like a dance, erotic, sensual. 

He matches her languid pace. He has always been a good partner, knows the rhythm of her body as well as his own. His hands run up and down her flanks, rise to cup the soft fullness of her breasts. His thumbs caress her nipples, and she gasps, something delicious and sweet.

Her hands upon his chest. She rises and falls, rocks back and forth. Her cunt clenches tight around him. His mind goes blissfully blank at the heat, the sensation of it.

How well he knows her. Her soft moans. The shape of her, silhouetted by moonlight. 

He knows every drop of sweat that glitters upon her immaculate skin. The flutter of her dark lashes. The part of her full lips around a moan that's filthy and beautiful. The scent of her, like summer and jasmine and skin.

Her long, manicured nails that draw red lines upon his chest, draw them _upward,_ along his clavicle, against the sides of his neck. Sharp points against his veins, his pulse.

He hardens further inside her. Thrusts hard and sharp, ignoring their languorous rhythm. 

The sound she makes is the most glorious thing.


End file.
